


Under your skin the moon is alive.

by dawnstruck



Series: Demi!Yuri [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, Dick Pics, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, First Time, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Masturbation, Phone Sex, Rimming, Rough Sex, Sexting, demi!Yuri, followed by many times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 03:18:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9157870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dawnstruck/pseuds/dawnstruck
Summary: Long distance relationships aren't easy, but that just means they've got to make each moment matter, got to make it memorable, got to make it mean more.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, hello, here's an explanation for Yuri's initial trust and authority issues, also his abandonment issues, his narcissism and perfectionism, his mood swings, temper tantrums, and everything in between. Please don't take Yuri's overall situation and background as a cause for his previously established demisexuality. It doubtlessly plays a role in how he perceives the world and the people around him, but it's not a sign of him being broken or needing to be fixed.  
> Again, I ended up putting quite some personal stuff into this. Apparently Yuri is just one of those rare characters I really relate to. In the course of this, he will also be turning into a freaky little sex kitten, so there is a lot of porn. You have been warned.
> 
> Title is once more taken from Pablo Neruda.

 

Falling in love with Yuri is something that happens gradually. Creepingly.

Otabek, twelve and frustrated and hurt in his pride at being stuck with the little kids, his quads aching as the ballet teacher corrected his stance on the barre for what felt like the hundredth time, had not been struck by lightening at the sight of the blonde boy who slipped from position to position as smoothly as raindrops on a lotus leaf.

“Very good, Yuri,” the teacher would say several times throughout the day and the boy named Yuri would not puff up with pride like many of the other children did, but instead just pursed his lips and did even better the next time.

Otabek's time in Russia had been a difficult one, from its rocky beginning over its disappointing duration to his final sobering conclusion when he realized that, the way he was now, he was unable to keep up with the local standard.

He had been isolated, far from home and frustrated. The other kids had not shunned him, but they certainly hadn't sought him out either. He was older than them, worse than them, and he was a foreigner, a Kazakh. Any and all curiosity they might have had for him was quelled by his own unwillingness to expose too much of himself.

His only solace, among all those strenuous lonely days, was the fact that Yuri, at least in some ways, was just like him.

Yuri was not the youngest in the group, and he was easily the best in the class, the most dedicated, the one who got the most praise. But he was separate as well. He was an entity all of his own.

Before class, when the others were still goofing off and joking around, Yuri was already going through his warm-up. During break, he'd eat his lunch, quickly, efficiently, and with his gaze turned inward, not listening to those around him. And after class, when everyone else was eager to leave, gathering up their things and chattering excitedly, he'd linger, stretch a little longer, ask the teacher for more pointers on how to improve which she would indulgently answer each time.

Yuri Plisetsky had the eyes of a soldier and, for the first time in his life, Otabek Altin realized that some people were always fighting invisible wars.

 

Long distance relationships are not ideal. It was difficult when you were friends and it was even worse when you were dating. But it's better than having to wait five long years until could finally properly meet each other and talk like equals, so Otabek will take what he can get.

What he gets is him and Yuri stretched out on the bed, loosely intertwined and kissing lazily, for moments and minutes, in hotel rooms on the evenings before competitions. It's never quite enough, for too many reasons, not when the next days will bring new goodbyes at airports and more weeks of drought, interspersed by text messages and snapchats.

It's good, though, it's wonderful and Otabek has not complaints but bouts of nostalgia when he wishes the world weren't so terribly large.

Kissing Yuri is a curious thing. Sometimes he will be so eager, so enthusiastic, practically crawling into Otabek's lap to get at his lips, and then a moment later he will suddenly shy away, blinking a little as though caught off guard by what he had just done, and then he'll turn and change the subject and they are talking again about cats or music or skating.

The thing with long distance is that their love happens in increments. What other couples might get to work up to in a matter of days or weeks, stretches across the seasons, two steps forward, one step back.

It's been five months and two weeks now and Yuri traces his fingertips along Otabek's collarbone, laid bare underneath the gray henley. The look on Yuri's face is almost reverent, all his attention on that one single movement, that small patch of skin, that tiny spot of contact. Soon enough he'll blink himself awake again and then he'll look confused by his own fascination and he'll pull away a little and act like it never happened.

For now, though, Otabek has his own thumb rubbing over the sharp jut of Yuri's hipbone, peeking out over the waistline of his jeans, and his nose in his Yuri's hair.

Since most of their interactions are limited to text messages and phone calls, when they actually see each other, the need to talk often evaporates. Instead, they'll spend long hours just soaking in each other scent and skin and wordlessly admit how starved they have been for each other.

They are gently rocking against each other, half-hard somewhere underneath their pants, with the potential to do more, but the soft safety that this is more than enough for now.

Otabek had told himself a long time ago that he would not pressure Yuri into anything, that he would gladly accept how much or little Yuri would be able to give him, even if it was nothing but friendship.

He had feared he'd lost even that, back in Berlin, at that club five and a half months ago, when he and Yuri had been dancing, grinding against each other really. When Yuri had suddenly snapped out of it and remembered that this was not something he did, or at least did not want to do with Otabek. When Otabek had waited by the bar, only to realize that Yuri was not coming back.

Everything had turned out different then, with Yuri in his arms and on his lips, and a promise that they could figure out whatever had blossomed between them. Because Yuri had noticed the rose only when it was already in full bloom while Otabek had been nurturing it for a long, long time, and now Yuri needed to learn how take care of it, too.

Patience, after all, is a virtue.

“Let's grab food,” Yuri yawns now, rolling up and off the bed, “I want French fries.”

“Alright,” Otabek says and smiles.

 

They text a lot, as they already did before, so that at least is easier than being faced with sudden separation. Texting also has one benefit as it makes Yuri more bold. Maybe it's the safe distance between them, the way it feels less personal, less real even. Maybe because there are no visuals involved and no voices.

So when they text, sometimes, Yuri gets cheeky. Gets daring. Suddenly he is in charge and, if he no longer wants to play the game, he can just put his phone away. There is no danger in sending ambiguous texts, except for typos and belated embarrassment.

 _What would you do,_ he writes when they are both at their respective homes and otherwise too alone, _If you were here right now?_

 _I'd hold you,_ Otabek replies with the truth, _And kiss you._

_Kiss me where?_

And there it is, that cue that allows everything to shift a little, for the parameters to change. And Yuri is a tease, but Otabek can be, too.

 _The tip of your nose_ , he says.

…, Yuri types back pointedly.

 _Your forehead and you cheeks_ , Otabek allows, easily calling Yuri's face to mind.

_Go on._

_Your temples_ , he says, _I'd kiss that spot underneath your jaw and then down to your pulse. It's racing._

_Is it?_

_It will be._

_Why?_

_Because you are on your back and I am above you and I'm biting at your neck._

_Are you going to leave a hickey?_

_Would you like me to?_

_Kinda._

Yuri would bruise easily, Otabek thinks. His skin is very fair and underneath his clothes he must be hiding the proof of failed jumps and hard falls. Otabek likes to think he wouldn't be hiding the marks on his neck, that he'd casually bare them to anyone who happened to look too closely.

He's already getting worked up, even from just this short interaction. It's safer for him, too, he knows. Here, he can get however aroused he wants to be without immediately scaring Yuri off.

He wars with himself for a moment, but then reaches down to palm himself through the fabric of his sweatpants. He's not quite hard yet but he will be if this keeps going.

 _I'd leave marks all over you_ , he promises, _On your neck and your wrists. On your thighs._

It's a familiar fantasy. His head between Yuri's legs, sucking on the pale skin, the muscle tensing underneath.

_What are you doing between my thighs?_

_Watching you._

_Just watching?_

_Waiting for permission to put my mouth on you._

_You need permission for that? I thought you already had your mouth on me._

_I'd blow you_ , Otabek tells him bluntly, _You'd enjoy it._

_You're very sure of yourself._

_You'd have to tell me what you like._

_What if I don't know what I like?_

That had been a point of contention between them. Because Yuri was so wholly inexperienced, so oblivious even to some things, while Otabek had already, at least fleetingly, been with other people.

I get it, Yuri had said as thought trying to convince himself, You're older and- and not like me. I don't mind, I get it.

There had been more to it than that, though. Like Otabek's feeble attempts to take his mind off his best friend who seemed to think the concept of romance was both a threat and an insult.

 _We'll figure it out together then,_ Otabek tells him now, _We have time._

_Are you hard right now?_

Yuri can blindside him like this, occasionally, with questions whose answers can either go woefully wrong or wonderfully right.

 _Yes_ , Otabek says because lying wouldn't be a better solution, _I am thinking of you._

 _I want to see you_ , Yuri writes.

Otabek stills, stares.

They've exchanged plenty of pictures, from straight-out-of-bed to towel-around-the-hips-after-shower, but never quite like _this_. And Otabek cannot deny that he likes the idea, the thought of how, miles and miles away, Yuri demands a proof of his arousal.

Otabek breathes. Then he gives himself a push, switches his phone to his other hand and shoves the right underneath his waistband. Handling his phone with his left is decidedly more difficult, but he pulls up his camera, simultaneously stroking himself until he is fully erect.

The lighting is bad, he realizes and awkwardly reaches over to fumble his bedside lamp into a better position. Then he shoves his sweatpants down and out of the way, before pointing his phone to find the best angle. He snorts because it is a little ridiculous, all of if, but in that moment he doesn't care. He loosens his fist around his cock a little, bites his lower lip, and then he snaps a picture.

It'll have to do, he decides as he inspects it. To him, it's just his penis, but he hopes Yuri will be a little more enamored. And Otabek is no quitter, so he hits send and waits.

And waits because there is a terribly long minute of nothing from Yuri. Otabek closes his eyes.

Not enamored then. Probably at least mildly freaked out. Disgusted, possibly.

Belatedly, it occurs to Otabek that maybe he had misinterpreted Yuri's message. That 'I want to see you' was a mere 'I miss you'. Not a request for a dick pic.

Shaha always complained about unsolicited dick pics. She said they could be nice when you were already into it, but out of context they were nothing but gross. Otabek, it seemed, had managed to end up in the latter category.

Suddenly, though, his phone rings. He startles, glancing down at the caller ID.

“Yuri?” he asks when he picks up, surprised.

“I wanted to hear your voice,” Yuri says and he sounds slightly breathless.

Otabek laughs a little.

“Yeah?” he asks, “What do you want me to say?”

“I don't know, I-,” there's some rustling on the other end and then Yuri says in a rush, “I'm in bed right now.”

Otabek had known that already, of course, but he also knows that this is Yuri's roundabout way of saying that he is at least somewhat aroused by everything that has just happened.

He does not ask Yuri to send a picture back, though. Yuri had had no problems sending selfies before, but he had not meant it then. He'd been a mannequin, posing in a window. The real thing was more dangerous.

“Are you comfortable?” Otabek asks instead.

“I-,” Yuri says, followed by more rustling. It could be his blankets or his clothes, and then his mouth his closer by the phone again, lowered to little more than a loud whisper, as though afraid of being caught. “Yeah, I am.”

“Good,” Otabek says, “I am, too.”

He moves his hand along his cock again, twisting his wrist a little in the way he likes. This is the first time that his interactions with Yuri include the promise of orgasm at its end and he is a bit leery of it still, as though he were overstepping his boundaries.

He can't tell whether Yuri is masturbating, too, but he does not ask that either. And, he admits to himself, there is something about that thought, of imagining Yuri sitting in his room, doors locked and curtains drawn, and just listening to Otabek pleasuring himself. It feels slightly voyeuristic, if you can call it that when there is no actual watching involved. He thinks he'd like Yuri to watch him, sometime.

He wonders whether he should be talking, should be outlining what exactly he is doing right now or what he would like to do to Yuri, but when he opens his mouth he finds that there are no words. So instead he just keeps stroking his palm along his cock, spreading the precum along the length, steadily gaining more speed. Yuri probably can't hear that, the sound of slick skin against skin, so instead Otabek allows himself to be a little louder than he would be under normal circumstances, a little more vocal.

His temple is sweaty against the screen of his phone as he presses it to his ear and he can feel the familiar pressure building up inside of him now, just below the surface, and it's inching closer. He runs his thumb over his slit, feels the wetness, rubs it along the head and then back up, before moving his entire fist down and then tightening on the upstroke. He moans again, a furrow between his brows, and on the other end of the line there is just the tiniest noise, like a hitched breath in the dark.

Otabek comes. He comes all across his belly, his abs contracting with the aftershock, his back arching, head pressing back into the pillow as he lets out a low, drawn-out groan.

“Did you...?” Yuri begins and then then doesn't finish the question.

“Yeah,” Otabek nods slightly, “Yeah.”

He sounds vaguely apologetic about it, too, because he came rather quickly, but he suspects Yuri's involvement might have had something to do with that.

Yuri breathes out, audibly, and then doesn't say anything for a while.

“That was... that was good,” he says at length, “I liked that, I think.”

“You can join in next time, if you want to,” Otabek tells him and feels secure in the knowledge that there will be a next time.

 

The season is over and Otabek takes a much needed break to go on vacation in Russia. His family had been had been slightly disappointed, but they also understood that they at least still lived in the same country and not all that far away while Otabek only ever got to see his boyfriend a couple of days at a time.

Instead, Yuri has promised to finally introduce him to his grandfather, one Nikolai Plisetsky and probably the only person whom Yuri would openly admit to loving. It's an honor, therefore, and also a slightly daunting prospect. Yuri thinks very highly of his grandfather's opinion and Otabek does not want to be found wanting.

They don't call Nikolai to come and pick them up, instead choosing to drive down themselves to save the man the long travel. Yuri has bought his first car, a tiny red city cruiser, that he weaves through the streets of Moscow with glowing eyes and colorful insults hurled at other drivers. Otabek, if he were honest, nearly has a heart attack every couple of minutes. It's not that Yuri is a particularly bad driver but that apparently most Russians are so that every red light becomes a near death experience as you wonder whether people will actually obey traffic rules this time.

Luckily, once they leave the city, it becomes easier. The roads are bumpy and the car ambles along courageously, but there are few other vehicles around and Otabek can keep his hand on Yuri's thigh without reflexively clenching down in terror at irregular intervals. Instead, he plays navigator when Yuri asks him to pull up Google Maps.

“I don't go home a lot,” he admits to why he can't recall the route from memory, “Usually, it's grandpa who visits me, if he can make it.”

Yuri's free time is precious because he has so little of it and whatever he has he likes to spend on his cat, his grandfather, and his boyfriend. He'd seemed hesitant, at first, when he first proposed the idea, as though Otabek would want to have him for himself, but excited, too, because he 'couldn't wait for his favorite people to finally meet each other'.

The drive takes over an hour and the poverty of the area becomes more palpable with every kilometer. The more rural regions of Kazakhstan might not look much better, but their overall economy has been quickly improving over the past two decades or so, and Otabek himself is more used to Almaty's city life anyway. The view outside the window here is slightly dreary, but Yurio connects his smartphone to the speakers and cranks up some music to make the time pass more quickly.

They arrive in the afternoon, in a town that is more like a village, with several houses strewn about, the kind where the old folks still live while the young people try to get away.

Yuri parks the car with minimal trouble because at least there is plenty of space around, and, despite the underwhelming first impression Otabek's is getting from the place, Yuri is visibly excited to be back, if only because of one specific person.

The house that greets them is small and old, not exactly decrepit but in the way that shows how maintenance in minimal because time and money and energy are lacking, too. But Otabek sees the nooks and crannies and thinks of a tiny Yuri playing hide and seek here, of him climbing up that gnarly tree and chasing after stray cats, and that makes everything a little more friendly.

There are two other cars parked by the roadside. One is small and green and rather banged-up, but obviously the reason why Yuri had chosen his own car. The other is is much more fancy, too clean and new to not look bizarrely out of place in this neighborhood.

Otabek thinks nothing of it at first but then he notices how Yuri is suspiciously eyeing the car, too. He blinks when Otabek takes his hand and then they are walking up the walkway together, gravel crunching underneath their soles.

The door is unlocked and Yuri doesn't even bother knocking. He looks eager as he pulls Otabek over the threshold and into the cramped hallway, biting his lip as though to contain himself and not just yell out an exuberant greeting.

On the left, a doorway leads into a kitchen, the smell of fresh coffee in the air, but there are voices coming out of what must be the living-room ahead of them. It might be the TV, but Otabek suspects it to be whatever guests had come in the nice car.

He wonders whether he should be taking off his coat and shoes and wants to asks, but then Yuri is already bolting ahead.

“Grandpa! Surprise!” he yells out, shoving the door open and jumping into the room.

Otabek chuckles to himself and follows closely. He's not sure whether he should wait and act as an additional surprise so that Yuri can introduce him, but he also wants to see the reunion between grandfather and grandchild.

Instead he sees how Yuri's shoulders take on a strange tilt, tall and tense, like a cat raising its hackles.

“Yurachka,” an old man's voice says and it sounds not delighted but terribly tired, “What are you doing here?”

“What- I'm-,” Yuri stammers out, “What is _she_ doing here, why-”

Yuri, for some reason, sounds like a lost child. Angry and abandoned and terribly confused.

Almost on instinct, Otabek steps forward, over the threshold and into the room. The other people barely acknowledge his presence.

There is Yuri's grandfather whom Otabek knows from stories and photographs, sitting in an old armchair, a flat cap on his head and deep lines on his face. Across from him on the equally ratty couch, a small table with coffee cups and biscuits between them, sit a woman in her late thirties, a dark-haired boy who can't be older than ten and a teenage girl that looks strikingly like Yuri.

“Oh,” the woman says and her hands lift up to cover her mouth as she unsteadily stands up, “Oh, how you've grown.”

Otabek doesn't know why but, in that moment, he knows with unequivocal certainty that this woman is Yuri's mother. The mother who had had a baby when she was much too young, who left him with his grandparents to go find a job and instead found a man to marry and have children with instead. The boy and the girl then are Yuri's half-siblings that he has never met. Half-siblings who look quite cozy on their grandfather's couch.

And Otabek is not a judgmental person, not someone who quickly jumps to conclusions. But it's easy to imagine what Yuri sees. Primarily betrayal.

“Let me look at you,” the woman says and takes a step forward. Her knee knocks against the table and the sends the cups ringing in their saucer. It's terribly loud and jarring.

Yuri doesn't jerk away exactly, but he leans back, his arms coming up in a defensive gesture. He has gone very pale.

“Anushka,” Nikolai says, “Give the boy a moment.”

“Of course,” Anna says, with a wet voice, “It's just... it's been so long and... I wasn't expecting...”

She does not sound unhappy about meeting him here, even if it obviously hadn't been planned.

“Is that him, mama?” the boy asks, leaning forward to at her skirt.

“Yes,” she says, reaching back to smooth a hand over his hair, “That's your brother.”

The boy just tilts his head to the side but the girl lets out an excited little noise, quickly stifling it with her hands. When Anna faces Yuri again, she is smiling, a fragile little thing.

“Those are Misha and Natasha,” she introduces, “Your siblings.”

“What-,” Yuri stammers, “Why are you- Why _now_?”

“You've been on the news so much,” she says and laughs a little, though it sounds very feeble, “I've been trying to get in touch with you but your grandfather wouldn't...” She trails off, probably realizing how accusing that sounds, but then plows on. “Your siblings wanted to meet you.”

“There- there were pictures of you in my magazines,” Natasha says shyly, “And mamochka gave me the _Frost Flower_ perfume for my last birthday. You looked so pretty in the commercial and I have seen all your videos online.”

“No,” Yuri says, shaking his head at this new reality, “That can't- that isn't-”

“Yurachka,” his mother says.

“Don't call me that!” he snaps and everyone flinches.

“Don't call me that,” Yuri repeats, the words quivering, “You have no right.”

She opens her mouth again but, before she can say anything, Otabek has stepped forward instead.

“Yura,” he says, carefully placing his hand on Yuri's coiled shoulder. He doesn't say more, because there is nothing else he can offer in this moment, no wise council, no consoling words, just a reminder of his presence.

“And who's that?” Misha asks, pointing at Otabek.

Anna purses her lips, slightly turns toward Nikolai as though looking for answers. Nikolai might guess who he is, might at least have heard stories and then seen Otabek's face on TV whenever he and Yuri were in the same competition. But it's not him who answers.

“You'd know who he is,” Yuri bites out, glaring at his mother like open glaciers, “If you hadn't fucking _left_ me.”

His voice breaks at the end there, though, and then he is already turning around and storming out of the door again. It's no surprise, really.

Otabek lingers for a moment, takes in the children's stunned expressions, the mother's resignation, the old man's old guilt. But he doesn't care about any of these people, so he just gives curt nod and follows Yuri outside.

Yuri, it turns out, has already climbed back into the car and is kicking up the engine with single-minded vindication, so Otabek quickly joins him and tries to pull the door shut in a way that sounds a little less like an ending.

And Yuri does not cry. He just drives a little too quickly, jerks the steering wheel more than he ought too, and doesn't turn on the radio, so that both of them are left alone with their thoughts and Otabek knows that any sign of comfort would be read as pity.

Yuri had never much spoken about the specific circumstances of his home life, had hinted at it, casually, so that Otabek needed to pay close attention and take time to decipher the meaning.

Yuri didn't call himself poor, he wasn't, it was just that, instead of his family providing for him, he was providing for his family. And sure, he didn't bother mentioning his parents, but that was just because he'd never met his father and he hadn't seen his mother since he was five, so there was nothing much to talk about.

So Otabek had inferred and endured and never asked any prodding questions because he knew it was not his place, not yet and maybe not ever.

Until last year, when Yuri was seventeen, he got a call just before Nationals, about how his grandfather was in the hospital again and that he was alright but that he would probably need surgery this time.

Otabek had watched Yuri skate that day and then, after Yuri had won gold, he'd listened to how Yuri called the hospital to tell them that he would pay for whatever treatment was needed. And later, when most of the reporters had left and Yakov, with a bitter expression on his face, had gone ahead to handle his other students, Otabek had stood outside a locked toilet stall and waited until Yuri's breathing evened out again.

For many many years, his grandfather was the only person Yuri really had. Only now it turned out that, all along, his grandfather was not only still in contact with his daughter but with his other grandchildren as well.

“How old do you think she was?” Yuri asks now, eyes trained on the road, hard like marbles. “The girl,” he clarifies when Otabek's answer is not immediately forthcoming, “Must've been thirteen or fourteen or something, right?”

She must have been. And that meant that, as soon as Yuri's mother had moved to the city to find a job, she had gotten herself pregnant again. Only that this time the child's father decided to stick around and even marry her. Did that man know about his wife's first son? Misha and Natasha had certainly not seemed surprised by Yuri's existence.

Not to mention that they had gone to visit their grandfather. It was difficult to tell whether this was a regular occurrence, but it was like with a cuckolded husband – even if he caught his wife in the act only once, it was difficult to believe that it had been the first time. And Yuri was barely ever home after all.

When they make it back into the city, it's still early evening. They had planned to spent the afternoon at Nikolai's place but those plans had been destroyed right off the bat and now an uncomfortable night stretched out ahead of them.

Yuri stomps up the stairs, unlocks the door to his apartment, kicks off his boots and immediately picks up his cat Potya from where she runs over to greet him. He buries his face in her fur and then disappears into his bedroom. And Otabek doesn't think he's ever seen Yuri quite so upset, but he knows when it's best to leave him alone.

He busies himself in the kitchen instead, whips up a warm dinner and a chocolate cake because that sounds like it might at least end the evening on a slightly more positive note. Yuri is not much of a comfort eater, though, not when he is stressed, and the smell is not enough to lure him out of his room.

It's not how Otabek had envisioned his stay here.

He's not annoyed that the day has taken a day for the worst, because this is more than just a mild inconvenience. This is Yuri being genuinely hurt and Otabek not knowing how to make it better.

When he had planned his vacation, he had hoped that... they could try out new things together. Their spontaneous bout of phone sex a little while ago had been the farthest they'd gone together and Otabek is relatively certain that Yuri hadn't even come then. He'd like to make Yuri feel good, make him come apart with his mouth and his fingers, but now is probably the worst time to be thinking of anything like that.

“Yuri,” Otabek says, when he finally goes to knock on the bedroom door, “I made dinner.”

There is no reply. He purses his lips and presses the handle door, opening the door just a small gap.

“May I come in?” he asks, with bated breath.

“... whatever,” Yuri says, and Otabek quietly slips into the room.

The light is dim, only what little is still coming from outside, and Yuri is spread out on the bed, Potya on the pillow next to his head, so Otabek steps closer, contemplating how to proceed.

Yuri takes that decision from him, however, when he lifts his arms up to the ceiling, silently asking for a hug. Otabek gives a small smile and leans forward. Before he can even properly do anything, though, Yuri has grabbed him and pulled him down onto the mattress, fiercely holding on.

A gush of air escapes Otabek, turning into a surprised chuckle, while Potya meows in protest, jumps up and off the bed, fleeing into the living-room.

“Dinner?” Otabek asks, slightly pulling back to look at Yuri.

Yuri kisses him. It's a loaded kiss, the kind that has a motive beyond just kissing, angry and desperate and begging for a chance to forget. It's a sad kiss, at its roots, but Otabek returns it anyway.

He puts everything into it, makes a distraction out of it, hopes he'll manage to pull Yuri up from the bottom of the lake.

It's nice to not be doing this in a hotel room for once, but in a bed that smells like Yuri, and with a day ahead of them that does not demand competition. All too quickly, Otabek feels himself getting aroused, his crotch subtly rubbing against the grove of Yuri's hip.

Yuri, apparently, has similar thoughts and he pulls away to look at Otabek. His eyes are serious.

“Beka,” he says, bluntly, “Fuck me.”

Otabek stills.

“Yura,” he says. He reaches out to wind a long strand of hair around his fingers, just to buy himself some time. “I don't think that's the best idea.”

“Don't act like you don't want to,” Yuri says, pointedly pressing against Otabek's erection, “I know you've thought about it, so don't give me that crap.”

“Of course I've thought about it,” Otabek assures him, “But I don't want this to be something you do just because you're upset.”

“That's my own call to make, isn't it?”

“But you're asking me to be an accomplice in your self-destruction.”

“It's just sex!” Yuri huffs, “Everyone has sex. It's not the end of the world.”

“You've never wanted to before,” Otabek points out and now Yuri looks downright offended.

“So what, you think I was just playing along till now?” he hisses, “Just because we haven't gotten there yet, doesn't mean I haven't been thinking about it, too.”

Of course Yuri must have considered sex between them. They had been lingering in the threshold for a while now, after all, and the texting and phone sex had certainly sparked their imagination. But for Yuri to openly admit that he's really considered it, that he has wanted it in the past – that is a new revelation that has Otabek unexpectedly tempted.

“Yura” he says again, two long syllables, wondering how to pull away without making it seem like a rejection, “I can't help but think that you are doing this out of... spite.”

Because that's what it must be. An attempt to forgot. To purge the pain from his body and erase the fact that today he had lost what little remained of his sheltered family life. And that's not how Otabek wants their first time to go.

With an aggravated growl, Yuri rolls away from under him, reaching out for the bedside table, pulling open the topmost drawer and digging through it, before he throws something onto the bed. It's a bottle of lube and a mixed box of condoms.

“I didn't know what size to get,” he says, petulantly, “It was difficult to judge on the photo and you have large hands.”

Otabek is struck by the thought of Yuri standing in an aisle at the drugstore, pulling out his phone to look at Otabek's dick pic in order to compare it to the sizes on the back of the packages. The mere fact that he even kept the picture is enough to make Otabek a little light-headed, but knowing that Yuri was honestly planning this has warmth unfurling in his stomach.

“I wanted to do this tonight anyway,” Yuri says now, hair falling into his face, “So don't you dare ruin what's left of this crappy day.”

He had wanted to have it all today. Show off his new car, take Otabek to see his childhood home, finally acquaint him with his grandfather. And then he had wanted to have sex for the first time, at his own place and with lots of time to spare. Somewhere along the way, however, everything had gone terribly wrong.

But this. This is something only Otabek can give him. And he is not gonna deny him that.

“All right,” he nods, “How do you want to do this?”

There a short moment during which Yuri seems surprised by his easy compliance. Then he squares his shoulders.

"I want you to do me,” he says decisively, erasing any doubts about whether he really fantasized about it beforehand.

Otabek takes a deep breath.

“All right,” he repeats, “But let's take it slow.”

He takes his time, fingering Yuri open and blowing him at the same time, easing him into the sensations. Yuri has his fingers clenched in the sheets, but the discomfort keeps the pleasure at bay, keeps him from coming too quickly. He makes little noises in between that let Otabek know what he enjoys. So far, he seems to be enjoying pretty much everything, long licks along his shaft and suckling kisses to the head and the pressure of Otabek's fingers inside of him.

When he can tell that Yuri is getting too close, Otabek slows down again, eases up and then finally pulls away, licking his lips. Yuri makes another slightly annoyed sound but he seems to understand that they are moving on with the program now. And he wants it.

He rolls over onto his stomach, propped up on his elbows, while Otabek carefully unwraps the condom and slips it on, covering himself with lube. He dips a kiss onto the arch of the small of Yuri's back, feeling the muscles there jump under his lips. Then he drapes himself across Yuri, not smothering him with his weight, but letting him feel the heat of his body.

Pushing in is a slow process. As a dancer, Yuri's natural instinct is to tense up, so getting him to relax takes a while, Otabek sinking in inch by inch, letting him adjust to the foreign feeling. Yuri is breathing very consciously, another habit doubtlessly instilled during his years of training, but finally he nudges his ass back, signaling for Otabek to continue.

Otabek's thrusts, at first, are little more than just rolling his hips, opening Yuri up wider, getting him to spread his legs more. And it feels good, very good, but Otabek is quite aware of how he mustn't let his pleasure get the better of him.

He pulls out farther, changes the angle, just a bit, and then slides back in. Yuri moans.

It's a surprised sound, one that seems to have escaped him without permission, and he quickly stifles it with his palm. In response, Otabek only presses closer, presses in deep, his chest against Yuri's shoulder blades, and he cranes his neck so that he may kiss Yuri on the cheek.

It is in that moment he notices that Yuri is crying.

“What the hell,” Yuri curses quietly. He's wiping his fingers under his eyes, trying to get rid of the stray tears, but there are still more brimming over. “This is ridiculous, why am I-”

“Hey,” Otabek says, rubbing his thumb over the curve of Yuri's shoulder, even though his own heart feels jostled in his chest, “We can stop, if you want to.”

“I don't wanna stop,” Yuri bites out, “I'm not scared or anything, you idiot, I'm just-”

He gives an angry sniff, cuts himself off, stares at the wall.

He's overwhelmed, Otabek realizes. Overwhelmed and out of his depth and his body betraying him in little unexpected ways. And, to save himself, Yuri turns his confusion into anger.

“Just keep going,” he says now, though his voice is still somewhat choked, “I'll get back into it.”

That's not quite how this is meant to go, though, so what Otabek does instead is lavish kisses onto Yuri's neck and shoulder, gently biting at the skin, then sucking a bit harder to leave the hickeys he had promised weeks ago.

Yuri accepts it, but he is still tense, still taut in Otabek's embrace.

“You never asked me how I fell in love with you,” Otabek says and the words surprise himself a little. They never admitted it quite so openly before. Their friendship had started so profoundly, so decisively, but their relationship had been sealed with a kiss and little more.

He's got Yuri's attention now, though, so he might as well continue. And he wants Yuri to know.

“When I first saw you when we were children, my initial instinct was to be jealous of you,” he remembers, “A rivalry would have been so easy. You were so impressive, so inspiring, during a time when I was at my lowest.”

If Otabek had been a little different, a little more petty maybe, he probably would have hated Yuri on principle. But that's not where his silent admiration had taken him. Instead, after leaving Russia, he had trained even harder. He improved. He carved his own path.

Yuri stood... not at the end of that path, but somewhere along its way. A milestone. A fixpoint. Otabek wanted to reach a level where they were equals. A level where he could look into Yuri's eyes and shake his hand and prove himself to him. So that's what he had done.

Falling in love came later, much later. Yuri was still so young at first and he was a little jaded and always focused on skating. It took Otabek a while to work through that, to understand that Yuri's disinterest in dating and sex had little to do with him being immature or busy or embarrassed.

Looking back at it now, Otabek can barely tell what came first: his dawning realization that he was slowly falling in love with Yuri – or the sobering resignation that his feelings would not be returned.

“And then we were friends for so long, it was difficult to tell the difference,” he continues, “So I tried not to look too closely.”

The first aberrant thought, he remembers very clearly, had been had at Yuuri and Victor's wedding when Phichit had asked them to join in on the waltz and Otabek led Yuri on the floor. It hadn't been the dancing, he thinks, or the song or the atmosphere. It had been Yuri's teasing tone and his mirth at Otabek's expense, the way he threw his head back and laughed, heedless of the people around them. But Yuri was sixteen and Otabek was almost nineteen, and it wasn't that much of a difference, but enough that he blamed the sudden short spark at his core on the wine he had had at the reception.

They had danced for a long time, longer than Phichit's request had required them, but Yuri had not tried to get away as soon as possible, had easily allowed Otabek to keep leading him, even as the slow waltz turned into a rumba, with all its twirls, and then a more spirited foxtrot. They'd stumbled here and there, Yuri unused to dancing with a partner and following nonverbal cues, but they had managed, no damaged toes but bursts of laughter instead, until Mila cut in. They were the same age, Otabek and her, but apart from that they barely knew each other. She knew Yuri, though, and all she did was give Otabek a stern look that morphed into a smile when he easily returned it.

You can have him back later, she had hummed and pulled Yuri away. Yuri had loudly protested, but danced with her and then with Lilya and then with Yuuko. Then he was roped into dancing with all of Yuuko's triplets several times because they kept insisting that they were the one Yuri hadn't danced with and Yuri couldn't tell them apart well enough to call them out on their lies. After all of that, however, Yuri had returned to Otabek's side, not dancing, not drinking, just complaining a little about annoying children and stupid couples in love and also about how much trouble it had been to organize this damned wedding. And in that moment Otabek realized that Yuri was someone who cared very deeply, but who had problems really expressing it.

Otabek's feelings, after that, were single moments patched together by weeks of texting, until one day, at a press conference, a reporter cheekily inquired about Yuri's love life. And Yuri didn't have to lie, didn't have to brush them off. Yuri, plainly, easily, did not care for dating. And then, when the question was turned to Otabek, when he was asked about whether he had 'a special someone', Otabek's customary answers of 'no', 'no comment', 'I'd like to concentrate on my career' were stuck in his throat.

Because his special someone was sitting right next to him, oblivious and curiously glancing over when Otabek hesitated, so Otabek had said 'I'm happy where I am at the moment' and spent the next few weeks reevaluating his life choices.

They are on their sides now, with Otabek's hand on Yuri's hip, gently thrusting, a barely there movement that turns the pleasure into low embers instead of fast fire. And he can tell that Yuri is listening closely, both to Otabek's words and to his body, because he is relaxing bit by bit, sinking back into Otabek's arms.

“That still... doesn't tell me...,” Yuri says, lifting his leg so he can fit it over Otabek's hip, “When exactly it happened.”

“Everyday,” Otabek says and presses his palm to Yuri's wild heart, “Right now.”

 

The next morning is soft and beautiful and painted in warm colors. They hadn't though to lower the blinds last night and the sun is openly streaming in through the window, falling across the rumbled sheets.

Yuri is lying on his belly, face turned away, his hair fanned out across the pillow like spun gold. He is still gloriously naked and, when Otabek wakes to find him like this, he cannot help but reach out to paint whimsical patterns along his back.

After while of this, Yuri stirs, rolling over onto his back and opening his eyes. He's frowning slightly, as though annoyed at being woken, at the sun for being so bright so early.

“Morning,” Otabek says, his voice still rough with sleep, “How are you feeling?”

Yuri seems to consider that question for a moment, taking stock of his body.

“My ass kinda hurts,” is what he says at length and Otabek smiles.

“How about I make breakfast and run us a bath?” he proposes, and in that way it's settled.

The hot water does wonders to relax them both and Yuri sighs as he leans against Otabek's chest. Otabek gets a mouthful of hair whenever Yuri's turns his head, loose strands escaping from the messy bun, but he finds that he doesn't mind so much.

It's good. It's all good.

Sometimes Yuri seems to forget that all of this is new for Otabek, too. He's never been in a serious long-term relationship before and much of it is still trial and error for him, even though they have already been given a strong foundation thanks to their years of friendship.

It also turns out that, when you are used to long distance, suddenly having all this time together is slightly awkward, slightly overwhelming.

They spend the rest of the day lounging around the house, watching movies and playing video games, and pointedly not talking about Yuri's feelings. In the evening, they go out for dinner, which Otabek decides should be a proper date, so they dress up a little more nicely and act like adults, at least until there is something that makes them laugh so loudly that the other patrons are sending them disapproving looks.

They take their time walking back to Yuri's apartment, yellowed shadows underneath the streetlamps, their hands linked between them, and when a flower girl approaches them Yuri voices some token protest but allows Otabek to adorn his braid with marigolds anyway.

Once back home, Yuri starts cleaning up the clutter they left throughout the day, turning up some music and nodding his head along. Yuri's taste in music ranges from classy to borderline intolerable, but Otabek finds himself liking this song, the heavy steady rhythm and sensual lyrics.

Together, they wrap up the day, a few more moments of domesticity until they can start all over again tomorrow, and once they are done they find their way to the bed where they kiss and kiss till midnight, with golden hair in Otabek's grasp and flowers strewn all around them.

 

Otabek goes back to Kazakhstan and then he is already planning his new program. He toys with themes like Strength and Unity and his coach gives him knowing looks but plays along. He spends time with his family, too, lets them badger him with questions about his travels, other skaters, and Yuri in particular, and then he is already back training every day and preparing for his first competition.

Finally, it is time. Otabek is itching to get back on the ice and in front of an audience. He is also looking forward to Yuri whom he hasn't seen since the end of his vacation two months ago. The three weeks they had spent together had strengthened their relationship in all the best ways, from waking in each others' presence every morning over exploring their sexual horizons to having their first proper fight as a couple, even if it was something as trivial as disagreeing on whether to eat out or cook at home.

Their goodbye at the end of it had been their most difficult so far, made even more so by the fact that, despite their sunglasses acting as meager disguises, they couldn't even kiss at the airport, for fear of someone recognizing them and posting photos online.

Otabek himself wouldn't mind so much, but he has come to understand that Yuri, contrary to his usual social media addiction, prefers to keep private things private. He'd been alright with holding hands in public, when it was dark and few people were around, but other than that he seems leery of the concept of sharing their relationship with others, as though that would somehow diminish it.

Otabek cannot fault him for it. He doesn't want to jump to conclusions but he has long since noticed how much trouble Yuri has with forming meaningful attachments and showing the according affection. In the beginning he had assumed it had something to do with Yuri's age and his general rejection of the concept of romance but, as Otabek slowly became an exception to all of Yuri's rules, he had observed how Yuri did not easily trust people, how he badmouthed those he actually respected, as though that would give him the upper-hand over them.

Pushing people away is a continuous effort but waiting for them to drop you is a risk that looms over you at all times.

Otabek, however, is safe. Otabek had proven time and time again that, for all their goodbyes, he also always returns. And Yuri welcomes him as a cat might, not running up to the door in greeting, but allowing him to step closer so he can nudge his hand against an open palm.

That's what Otabek reminds himself to look forward to, even as his flight is delayed so that he only arrives at the hotel late in the evening. The day was hellish and he already hates that he'll have to perform tomorrow. He feels tired and unwashed, and he just wants a shower and a bed. Instead, after he and his coach check in, he just gives her a nod to let her know he'll be heading directly to Yuri's room.

He'd texted Yuri from the airport, an estimation to when he might finally be there, so when he knocks on the door is it immediately opened.

“Hey,” Yuri says, fresh-faced and bright-eyed and wearing only a slightly over-sized t-shirt that Otbek might have forgotten during his stay in Moscow.

“Hey,” Otabek says, waiting for Yuri to step aside so he can wrangle his suitcase across the threshold and into the room. The door closes behind him.

“Tired, huh?” Yuri says, taking in Otabek's travel-disheveled appearance and his 5 o'clock shadow. And Otabek hates it, hates that the stupid airline made him lose precious hours with Yuri, hates that he is too exhausted to stay up and spend the rest of the evening talking. He hates that, in two days, he'll already be flying back to Almaty again. He hates that all Yuri has of him is a stolen shirt to tide him over till their paths cross once more.

The short bout of anger and frustration in Otabek's chest twists around itself, warps a little and then sinks lower, till it cannot be mistaken for anything but pure aching want.

They are kissing so suddenly that Otabek cannot even tell who made the first move, but in that moment it does not even matter because it's mutual anyway.

Yuri has had another growth spurt, his last one maybe, so they stand almost on eye level now, but he's still more slender than Otabek, more willowy. Otabek bends his knees slightly and then grabs Yuri underneath the thighs, hoisting him up. Yuri lets out a tiny yelp but then holds on, throwing his arms around Otabek's shoulders and letting himself be carried over to the bed, deposited at the edge of the mattress so that Otabek himself can kneel down in front of him.

For a moment they just look at each other.

“That's my shirt,” Otabek says eventually, tugging at the hemline of it.

“Yeah,” Yuri says. His fingers have come up to toy with the collar. His gaze is steady. “You want it back?”

They don't quite rip the fabric, but it's a near thing, the seams audibly protesting as they wrestle the shirt over Yuri's head, leaving his hair a mess. The shirt lands somewhere on the floor, quickly followed by Otabek's jacket and sweater, and then Yuri's underwear.

He's hard already, obviously quite pleased with how things are progressing, and Otabek's need only intensifies. He could blow him, he thinks, because penetrative sex directly before a competition might not be the best idea, not when they are still new to all of this. Instead, however, he is struck by a different thought, one that had occurred to him fleeting but never really taken hold. Now, though, he wants it.

It takes a bit of manhandling and a few frustrated grunts to get Yuri into position, pushing him up on the bed so that he is facing the wall and holding on to the headboard, obviously a bit confused about where this is going, but that is nothing in comparison to the blush on his face when Otabek rolls over onto his back and shuffles around till his head is between Yuri's knees.

“Beka?” Yuri asks, sounding slightly strangled. He must be feeling exposed like this and, in a silent gesture of comfort, Otabek rubs his cheeks against the inside of Yuri's thighs. The skin there is pale and soft and reddens easily when Otabek drags his stubble across it.

“Come down a little,” Otabek says roughly and then helps Yuri lower himself until he is kneeling directly above Otabek's face.

“What-,” he tries, sucking in a breath, “Are you-?”

Otabak licks him and Yuri jolts.

“Oh God,” he says, but he doesn't squirm away, doesn't really object, so Otabek takes that as permission to keep going.

He licks and sucks till spit is dribbling down his chin and the corners of his mouth, spreading Yuri's ass cheek apart, and then he is pushing his tongue in along with one of his fingers, finding a rhythm that quickly has Yuri's thighs quivering with the effort to hold still.

The angle itself is tedious, and the tendons in Otabek's neck strain as he tilts his head back, his shoulders taut. He's still in his jeans and his erection is uncomfortably trapped, but he doesn't mind so much, instead pressing his face closer, the tip of his nose pressing up against Yuri's balls. It's hard to breathe and he can feel himself grow a little light-headed, but maybe that's just because of the sounds that Yuri makes, overcome and close to breaking.

Yuri's still holding on to the headboard, but he's got his back arched now, his hair whispering across Otabek's stomach, and Otabek is almost certain that, if Yuri bent back any further, he'd be able to give him a very bendy blowjob.

The mere thought has Otabek surge up a little, his hands digging into Yuri's coiled quads to pull him down more insistently, opening his mouth farther as he eats him out. Yuri clenches around his tongue, a hiccuping breath, and then he is coming, his body folding itself forward with the force of it. A long guttural moan escapes his lips.

Otabek sits up, wiping a hand over his mouth to get rid of the saliva and fishing Yuri's shirt off the floor to wipe the cum off Yuri's chest and belly.

Yuri himself is sprawled out on the pillows, his face still distinctly red. He looks completely exhausted, not just physically but mentally, too. It must have taken a lot out of him to let Otabek do this without prior warning.

“I'll be right back,” Otabek says, pressing a kiss to Yuri's forehead and then disappearing into the bathroom.

He takes a quick shower, just to wash off the grime of the day, and when he puts a hand to his cock it takes him a mere minute to jerk off, still too worked up from everything that happened before. He gets out, dries off, doesn't bother with getting dressed, just returns to the room to find Yuri fast asleep and curled up on the bed.

Otabek joins him.

 

For his performance the next day, Yuri is wearing makeup. Most skaters are, usually, at least putting on some powder to take away the sheen, and then whatever works well to enhance they best features. Otabek himself always had his eyebrows done and then contoured his cheekbones in a way that no one could really tell but that made him look a little more angular and mature.

Yuri, as so often, forgoes subtlety. He's wearing sharply winged eyeliner, dark red lipstick and rouge high on his cheeks, no doubt courtesy of Lilia, and his hair is in a complicated looking braid. He could pass for a girl, if one didn't look too closely. And if he weren't wearing a black suit.

It's a perfectly androgynous appearance and Otabek cannot wait to see it in action.

Yuri's chosen a[ jazzy number](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nKeAOH1OSu0) that starts out with a soft piano keys and a sensual scratchy voice telling a story of enthrallment, and his body weaves itself into the music until he could be both the bewitcher or the poor bastard who had fallen for his charms. Every movement is exact and calculated, completely in control, but Otabek thinks again of how his tongue had made Yuri come undone last night.

After his short program, he is still flushed, his chest heaving as he returns to the sidelines of the rink. They don't have much time, then, Yuri moving on to the Kiss and Cry while Otabek has to get ready for his own performance, but when they pass each other, he hands Yuri a single orange tulip that Yuri clutches to his chest while he waits for his points to be announced.

When it's his turn, Otabek [skates](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZVx_1My7Z6o), with large, strong, conquering movements. He usually feels like he has barely a quarter of Yuri's grace and he can not move his body in the same ways, but he has other means to draw attention to himself, to keep everyone focused on his performance. Skating like this makes him feel powerful, as though he could move mountains and part seas, and he finishes with the roaring applause of the audience in his ears, the commentators praising his performance.

He doesn't quite break his personal best but it's only the beginning of the season, so he still has time to whittle away at the routine, to smooth it into perfection until he feels at home in it. When the Kiss and Cry is over, he means to go watch the next skater, but instead he is being apprehended by Yuri who still looks unusually flushed.

“Come with me,” Yuri says, and leads him away without further explanation. He's already back in his trainers, but Otabek ambles along on his skates, letting himself be pulled away from the cameras and to the locker rooms.

“That routine,” Yuri says when the door closes behind them and they are left alone, “Was good. Real good.”

“Thanks,” Otabek says and means it. He choreographed much of it himself. Thought of Yuri and how he could be so fierce and fragile at the same time, and how Otabek wanted to fight by his side or protect him, whatever was most necessary.

But Yuri is just looking at him now, his lips slightly parted and his eyes glazed over.

“Yura?” Otabek frowns, “Are you feeling alright?”

And then Yuri is on him, throwing himself against Otabek's chest and attacking him with a hungry mouth. Otabek stumbles back in surprise, but then he stands strong, pushes back into the kiss.

It shouldn't come as a surprise that, for someone so single-mindedly focused as Yuri, skating would be the thing that manages to turn him on like nothing else, but Otabek finds himself immensely pleased. He had not skated to seduce, but he had managed to do so anyway, and now Yuri is pushing him down onto one of the rickety benches.

Otabek has a split second to be caught off guard, to consider objecting to this, but then he finds himself relieved instead because unlike most skaters he is not wearing a full-bodied spandex which means Yuri can easily undo his pants as he sinks down in front of him.

Otabek is not hard yet, but that quickly changes when Yuri strokes him, the angle slightly awkward but the motions smooth. And Otabek thinks he could get off like this, watch Yuri take him to completion, and then they could quickly return to their coaches, with no one suspecting anything.

Yuri, however, has different plans and then his mouth is already descending over the head of Otabek's cock, giving it a hard suck.

With a small jolt, Otabek swallows a curse. Yuri Plisetsky certainly never failed to surprise. It's just that Otabek had never been at the receiving end in quite this way.

Under other circumstances, he might have felt the need to remind Yuri that he did not need to do this, that he should not feel pressured into something just because he thought it was expected. But here, in this moment, there is absolutely no doubt that all Yuri wants is to blow Otabek until he sees stars.

The visual itself is almost too much, Yuuri on his knees in front of him, brushing a loose strand of hair behind his ear, as his red red lips move along the length of Otabek's cock, leaving it wet and shining.

If, ten minutes ago, someone had asked Otabek whether he would ever have sex in such a public place, he would have answered with a resounding no. But, his past self had not yet been as intimately acquainted with Yuri's very convincing mouth.

So Otabek's fingers clench around the edge of the bench and he leans his head back, trying to keep from bucking up and choking Yuri. He bites his tongue, suppressing a groan. The last thing he needs is someone hearing them and walking in on them.

Abruptly, Yuri stops and Otabek almost groans at the loss. When he glances down, Yuri is looking up at him, though his gaze slightly jumps aside, landing somewhere on Otabek's ear.

“Is is... is it not good?” he asks, uncertainly. His fingers are still hesitantly curled around the base of Otabek's cock.

“Why do you ask?” Otabek frowns.

“It's just...,” Yuri begins and then trails off, licking his spit-slick lips, “You're so quiet.”

“I'm always quiet during sex,” Otabek points out.

Yuri's eyes shutter.

“When you were... doing yourself. On the phone,” he insists, “You were louder. But with me you're always quiet. So I'm... not good, right? You have to _tell_ me if I'm not good, I'm not gonna get better if you don't tell me how to improve, I-”

“Yura,” Otabek interrupts him quickly, leaning down to kiss him on the mouth, tasting himself, “I'm naturally quiet. On the phone, I was loud _because_ we were on the phone and I wanted you to hear it. Now we are in a locker room.”

Yuri still doesn't look entirely convinced, “So, I don't suck at this?”

“... is that an honest question or was that pun intentional?”

“Oh my God,” Yuri mutters under his breath but then ducks his head again, bobbing up and down as he moves along the shaft.

He overestimates himself, gags a little, pulls back up. His teeth scrape against the head and Otabek tenses more on instinct than anything else, but Yuri immediately apologizes with a lick, rubbing the flat of his tongue across the slit, before swallowing him back down, simultaneously working him with his hand.

Yuri does not need to be told how to improve. This is no performance, not skating or ballet, and Otabek is not his coach. They get to figure things out together. And Yuri is already more perceptive than others might be, listens closely to what makes Otabek's breath catch and allows himself to relax his throat little by little.

In that moment, the door opens.

It could have been worse, Otabek thinks in hindsight. Yuri's back is to the door and there is relatively little to be seen. The hinges are also extremely well oiled, meaning that Yuri does not hear the person entering, but just keep going with a little furrow of concentration on his brow. There is also no sudden screeching, no complaints about public indecency, and no terrible headlines that will forever taint their careers.

Instead, there is Mila Babicheva, with a bouquet of white lilies in her arms and looking utterly flabbergasted. She doesn't say anything, but her mouth opens and closes, staring at where Otabek's hand rests against the back of Yuri's head, gently moving him along.

She gapes and then her gaze snaps up, locking with Otabek's. For a moment, they just look at each other. Otabek doesn't quite know what kind of face to make, so he just tries to keep it neutral, just looks at her and silently begs her to leave as quietly as she had come.

Yuri moans, spit dribbling past his lips and along Otabek's cock, and Mila is gone so quickly she might as well have never been there. But she was and she saw and she knew now, and Otabek had sometimes wondered whether he would like being watched but now it turned out that, yes, he indeed likes being watched, he likes it when his gorgeous boyfriend is blowing him in a semi-public venue and when said boyfriend's equally stunning friend accidentally walks in and watches them.

Otabek comes so hard his hips jerk forward before he can stop himself or at least warn Yuri. Yuri chokes and pulls back, getting a mouthful anyway and then some lands on his face, ruining the rest of his makeup.

Otabek flounders a little, waving his hands, trying to apologize, but he is still breathing hard, and instead he just sort of ends up tilting Yuri's chin up to keep the cum from dripping down onto his suit as well.

Yuri pulls a grimace but swallows anyway, wiping the back of his hand over his lips.

“You came a lot,” he notes, sounding a little disgusted and a lot pleased.

“... yeah,” Otabek says lamely. Maybe, one day, he'll tell him the truth about this specific encounter.

They are almost out of time then, the last performance probably nearing its end, so they quickly try to get themselves back into a halfway presentable state. Yuri's makeup is supposedly sweat-proof but not exactly semen-proof and, when they try to rub it off with water, they only make it worse, his eyeliner badly smudged and red particles still stubbornly clinging to his lips.

He's a complete mess when he comes to stand on the podium and Lilia is giving both of them disapproving stares as though she knew exactly what had happened in that locker room. Mila blushes bright red whenever she looks over at Yuri and Otabek, but just shakes her head when Yakov tries to figure out whether she is feeling unwell. Yuri grins proudly, waving at the cameras, and Otabek thinks he might have unleashed a demon.

 

They are watching a movie that night, just them, sitting on opposite ends of the couch in Otabek's hotel room. They've got each others' feet in their laps, massaging the sores and the blisters, and the smell of antiseptic is sharp in the air. The curve of Yuri's ankle feels downright decadent underneath the pad of Otabek's thumbs, smooth skin and then up up up where the translucent hair covers his sinewy calf.

Neither of them is particularly ticklish, but Otabek shivers, just a little, whenever Yuri digs his knuckles into the arch of his left foot, as though there were a secret trigger.

The movie is in English, but Otabek hadn't been paying much attention, glancing over every now and then whenever there is an explosion. Yuri seems to like it, though, had picked it because it was one of is favorites. Watch this, he'll say sometimes in between and then tense up before something exciting happens.

He likes the car chases, the gun fights, the predictable dialogues because Yuri is the kind of kid who thinks that being in the Mafiya would be fun, who daydreams about being someone who makes people quiver in their boots, but he goes out on the ice and writes legends instead.

“Are you even watching it?” Yuri asks right then, obviously having noticed Otabek's absent-minded stare and sounding slightly miffed because of it.

Otabek gives a rueful smile, feeling a little bad about completely ignoring the movie Yuri had wanted to show him so badly.

“I was distracted by watching you,” he admits.

The effect is immediate and Yuri ducks his head as he blushes.

“Don't talk shit,” he says, but then he is already climbing into Otabek's lap, making himself comfortable, and for a while they do nothing but kiss languidly, the gunshots from the movie growing fainter and fainter as everything narrows down to where their bodies touch.

Over the months Yuri has become increasingly more confident about kissing, initiating their encounters more frequently and with more gusto. The incident in the locker room today had just been the dam breaking, really. It's as though this, all of this, were an acquired taste and Otabek has just managed to be particularly convincing.

Yuri hums happily. His fingers have come up to run over the buzzed hair at the side of Otabek's head, over the shell of his ear and the piercings there.

“Yurachka,” Otabek whispers against his lips and that effect is immediate, too.

Yuri tenses, pulls back, turns his face away.

“Don't do that,” he says, “It's weird.”

“I like having a nickname for you,” Otabek says, rubbing his nose against Yuri's cheek,

“That's what grandpa calls me,” Yuri says and then he amends, “Called me.”

Otabek doesn't point how his mother and his sisters call him Beka and how it never bothered him when Yuri started doing the same. Instead he knows that there is a larger problem at hand.

“When was the last time you talked to your grandfather?” he asks.

“Why does that matter?”

“Haven't you made up since we went to visit him?”

Yuri doesn't say anything and Otabek sighs, already having expected the worst.

“You really ought to talk to him,” he says, “I know you are upset but is it really worth turning your back on him?”

“You don't get it, do you?” Yuri bites out and this is proof of just how hurt he is because he has never taken this tone with Otabek before. In a split second he is back on his end of the couch, pressing up against the arm rest, his body curled in on himself, “He lied to me, okay? He _lied_.”

“Yuri...”

“No,” Yuri objects, “All this time I think my mother cut herself loose and that she's found a rich husband, so I can go on believing she is a bitch who – in the past twelve years – I only saw once, at my grandma's funeral, but now it turns out that she's been coming all the way from the big city to show off her darling children and her shiny car, which means it was never just about the money or that she was an all-round shitty mother and daughter, it was never about her, it was just me she didn't-”

“Yura,” Otabek says again, afraid of where his thoughts are taking him, and then he's swooping Yuri back into his arms. He knows it's an easily miscalculated move, knows he's risking a black eye, because Yuri looks equally likely to lash out or just break down.

Instead, at Otabek's familiar touch, he settles into momentary calm, almost eerie, pressing his forehead against the Otabek's sternum.

“The girl,” he says, his voice flat, “Natasha or whatever the fuck her name was. She looks like my grandma did that age.”

“She looks like you,” Otabek says, because it's the truth, the relation between them had been undeniable.

“Exactly,” Yuri shudders out, “I've just been... replaced. My mother never wanted me in the first place, she was like seventeen and I was a vodka baby. Both she and my father were drunk, just some guy from the neighborhood, no one ever bothered to tell me his name, so of course she'd dump me on someone else and start a better life. And I don't care, I don't fucking care, I didn't need either of them, I had grandpa. I- I thought we had _each other_. But while I was away from home working my ass off so he wouldn't have to, he was having tea and biscuits with his new grandkids who actually have both their parents, and he hasn't called me either, so I'm not gonna call him, I don't need him, I don't need any of them, they can die for all I care.”

Yuri is openly crying now. The sobs are raking his entire body, muscles painfully contracting with the motions, and his fingers are clenched in the front of Otabek's shirt. And it hurts. It hurts having to watch and being unable to help, because there is little that words can do in a situation such as this.

When Otabek was seven, his father had died of a brain aneurysm. It had all been very quick and sudden and Otabek barely remembers any of it, apart from the cutting absence that had left a permanent mark on his life. But he'd had his mother, his older sister, and his younger sister, and they had patched themselves back together as best as they could, and they were happy now.

So yes, his father dying had been painful and traumatizing, and yet Otabek had never had reason to hate anyone. Life was unfair and death, too, and back then he had developed a bit of precocious cynicism because of it, but other than that his helpless anger could not be directed somewhere specific.

Yuri, however, had been actively abandoned and thus his ire was concentrated like icicles and pointed at those who had wronged him.

And there would have been reasons for how it all went, valid reasons maybe, if one cared to look for them.

Anna Plisetsky, seventeen and pregnant and overwhelmed, with little hope for the future if she were just to stay at home to take care of her little son, eventually making the gamble to go and find a job somewhere else, even if it meant leaving that son behind. Meeting a man instead, someone who was nice to her, maybe, someone who made her feel loved and worthy and who did not run away when she told him she was pregnant, but who married her instead and raised the child with her and even gave her another one. A man who was so wonderful that she might not have dared telling him that she had too many mistakes in her past already, that there was another hungry mouth to feed, the result of a drunken night when she was barely more than a girl herself.

She would have been younger than Yuri is now, Otabek thinks, and it's difficult to fault her for taking the easy way out. But because she had wanted an easier life, Yuri had instead been forced to do what she had been unable to attempt. Yuri had worked and worked, for scholarships and sponsors, for medals and prize money and marketing deals, until skating brought in profit instead of just devouring funds for costumes and coaching costs.

The eyes of a soldier, Otabek had thought as a boy and not even known half of it.

Forgiveness is a difficult thing because rational decisions do not make it happen. You can offer your hand to someone who hurt you, but that is no guarantee that the hurt will diminish.

“I know this is a lot to ask,” Otabek says, “But have you tried seeing things from their perspective?”

Yuri tenses.

“ _What_?” he grits out.

“Your grandfather lost a daughter,” Otabek muses, “Of course he'd want her back in his life. But he also must have known that it would hurt you.”

“Then he should not have done it,” Yuri claims, “And why would he anyway? She left him, too, didn't she?”

“I don't know why she stayed away so long,” Otabek admits, “But... she mentioned that your grandfather was reluctant about letting her get back in touch with you. I think he wanted to figure out her intentions before he allowed it. He wanted to protect you.”

It might all have been a series of misunderstandings, each party making baby steps but shying away again when someone else moved too quickly. They were all very suspicious of each other, like starved and beaten dogs.

Yuri sniffs audibly, wiping his forearm across his face. The hot tears have made his cheeks red and tender. Otabek brushes his thumbs over them.

“Call him,” he says, “You are both so stubborn and someone has to make the first move. I don't want you to regret it if you don't.”

Because Yuri's grandfather was not old per se, only in his mid-sixties, but there had been enough health scares already, and Otabek did not want the next time Yuri ran into his mother to be at Nikolai's funeral.

“Just so you know,” Yuri says, “I'm only doing this because I want you to shut up and eat me out again.”

He picks up his phone.

 

Otabek is not there at Rostelecom, so he watches the livestream to see Yuri perform a slightly wobbly rendition of his free program but win silver anyway. He also spots Nikolai in the crowd, flanked by Anna, Natasha and Misha. Natasha wears her hair like Yuri's and is holding a banner with his name, and then they all clap and cheer and Anna hesitates before throwing something onto the ice. Yuri sees it fall and hesitates before picking it up, but then he does it anyway, and during the Kiss and Cry his nervous fingers pick at the keyring with the little kitten on it.

 _I didn't really talk to them_ , he writes later, _I just sent grandpa the tickets. It sucks 'cause I only made silver._

 _I'm proud of you_ , Otabek tells him and he means the medal and the mercy that must be somewhere in Yuri's heart.

 _I'll get gold at the GPF,_ Yuri promises, _JJ can suck my dick_.

_I thought that was my job._

_Do you want me to break up with you or why are you mentioning our sex life and Jean-Jacques Leroy in the same fucking sentence?_

_I'm sorry. I love you._

_Prove it to me at the Grand Prix_.

 

The night before the Grand Prix, they go out to have dinner. It has become a habit because it's when they had first met. Their fifth anniversary now, which sounds like a big deal, but it's an easy affair with the two of them.

They spontaneously pick a restaurant, tuck themselves away into a corner somewhere and make lighthearted bets about the short programs and free skates. They don't order alcohol, but when Otabek's steak arrives he folds up the sleeves of his dress shirt, well aware of how Yuri keeps staring at his exposed forearms the entire time.

Yuri himself looks good, too, snazzy slacks and black suspenders, and when the waiter asks whether they would like to order dessert they decline and instead make their way back to the hotel.

They've barely made it into the room when Yuri is already trying to undress Otabek, undoing his waistcoat and then fighting with the buttons of his shirt, finally pushing the fabric off his shoulders and baring his chest.

Yuri latches onto one of his nipples and then drags him over to the bed, simultaneously stripping himself. It's the first time that Yuri has taken control quite like this and it makes Otabek more daring, too, makes him think he doesn't have to tread quite as carefully as he usually would.

They kiss, with teeth and tongue and teetering on a precipice, but before Otabek quite knows what he is doing he has physically pushed Yuri onto the bed, wrists held in his hands, holding him down with body weight.

They both have a deer-in-the-headlight moment because Otabek has never been this rough before, and he opens his mouth to apologize, regretful of his loss of control. But Yuri... just breathes out, a helpless helpless sound with something soft underneath, and Otabek understands that this is something Yuri _wants_.

Undressing each other the rest of the way involves a lot of unnecessary grunting and twisting around. Yuri, as Otabek had already known, is extremely flexible. He also turns out to be rather scratchy and bitey if the marks on Otabek's shoulders are anything to go by, and for a while they just rut against each other, feeling the hard lines of their bodies.

Eventually, Otabek pins one of Yuri's legs above his head so he can properly open him up, keeping it there, even as he finally sinks home. Otabek lets out a low groan and, upon seeing the delight on Yuri's face, remembers the previous complaint about how he was always too quiet. And it might not be in his nature to show how affected he is but, he thinks, he can make an exception tonight.

He draws back and immediately fucks back in. Yuri, always so sensitive in the beginning, gives a stuttered moan which Otabek answers in kind.

They keep going like this, Otabek leaning farther over Yuri's body, taking a hold of his cock and stroking him, the rhythm teasingly off-kilter to his thrusts till Yuri growls in annoyance and pulls him away. He hesitates for just a second, but then he takes Otabek's large hand and very deliberately places it against his jugular.

Otabek needs a moment to fully comprehend the silent request but, when he does, his eyes widen.

Yuri looks at him, a challenge in his eyes, but trust, too, and fragility. Carefully, Otabek presses down, his thumb and forefinger digging into the veins along Yuri's neck.

Yuri's breath hitches and he tilts his head back even farther, but his gaze stays on Otabek's. And Otabek never thought that something so violent could be this gentle, but here he is, Yuri's life literally in his hands, and he has never felt more tender.

He rocks forward, deeper into Yuri's waiting body and, when that, too, is okay, he continues. With every roll of his hip he hits Yuri's prostate and then, once he's found his rhythm, he tightens his grip a little each time, drowning Yuri in the dual sensation.

Underneath him, Yuri's moans are getting louder till he sounds almost incoherent, but that only spurs Otabek on.

“That time in the locker room,” he says because for some reason he thinks that talking would be a good idea, “When you were on your knees.”

Yuri's eyes flash with the reminder and his hand come to up to circle around Otabek's wrist, fingernails digging into the skin.

“You didn't see it then,” Otabek continues, “But Mila walked in on us.”

Yuri gasps. He had not known, had not even suspected it, and Otabek doesn't quite know where this boldness comes from, how he can just go on and not have his brain implode, but its like his mouth is operating at its own leisure now.

“She just stood there, watching us, while you were going down on me,” he says although he knows it's a bit of an exaggerated account, “I could see her blush. I bet she couldn't look at you for the rest of the week. That whenever she did, she was reminded of seeing you with my cock in your mouth.”

Yuri is whimpering now, struggling against Otabek's hold, but his hips are bucking wildly and there is an intense glint in his gaze, almost manic, almost trance-like. Otabek lets his head fall down to growl into his ear.

“I bet you'd like it if someone saw you being fucked by me.”

And that's it, Yuri is coming, hard, his body trying to jackknife off the bed, but being tethered there by Otabek's hands on his neck and hip. He's going to have bruises tomorrow, but in this moment it seems to wonderfully worth it, so Otabek just continues fucking into him with rough movements until he's pushed over as well.

Five years, he thinks. And still so many more ahead of them.

 

Two days later, Yuri's short program has him several points in the lead and when it's time for the[ free skate](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k1-TrAvp_xs) he performs beautifully as well, gliding across the ice with a kind of dignity that his youth had hinted at but that only truly bore fruit now.

Yuri had often imitated the innocent airs Victor liked to put into his programs, the kinds that made both ice and dancer feel like they were pure, untouched and untouchable. _Agape_ had been one of those routines and Yuri had incarnated it beautifully. But at the end of the day, Yuri was so much more than that.

He was more than a transcendental idea, more than the role he inhabited in front of the audience and the cameras, and Otabek was one of the few people who truly knew the extent of it.

So when it's finally his turn, Otabek [skates](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nSmf8lulNFY) and thinks of Yuri's pulse against his open palm. He thinks of a little boy with his leg flawlessly extended behind him as his own fingertips quiver in sympathy. He thinks of a red car barely being stopped from running a red light by an angry foot jumping down onto the brake. He thinks of Yuri rubbing his eyes when he doesn't want to admit how tired he is and how he laughs into his collar when someone makes a bad joke. He thinks of blond hair in his mouth and red lips around his cock, of Yuri's tears when he is scared or angry or relieved, because he feels so deeply and so thoroughly that sometimes it burst from him like a geyser.

Otabek thinks of the ten years that led him up this point, to the scratch marks on his back and falling asleep with Yuri in his arms.

He finishes to standing ovations and his heart pounding out of his chest.

And when Otabek wins gold, for the first time in his life standing on the podium above Yuri, Yuri just grabs him by the medal, pulls him down, and kisses him soundly in front of all the cameras.

 

**Coda.**

The headlines afterwards are priceless and have Yuri angrily huffing as they sit on the couch, scrolling through the various online articles about the GPF results.

 _Spotlight Stolen!_ reads one, but the unequivocal winner so far is _Love blossoms on the ice! Yuri Plisetsky follows in the footsteps of his mentors and snags himself a Grand Prix Champion!_

“Why is it still about them?!” Yuri complains, “They retired three years ago!”

“We've got to outdo them then,” Otabek offers, “Would you like me to propose to you at Worlds?”

Yuri seems to be considering it for a moment.

“That would show them, wouldn't it?” he mumbles, a small frown on his face, but then he blinks and looks up, “Wait, what? Propose?”

“Only if you win gold,” Otabek says.

“Oh my god, stop,” Yuri yelps and flaps his hands at him, “Don't be Victor, don't be Victor!”

“You're right,” Otabek nods, “It would rather be JJ style.”

“Ugh,” Yuri grimaces and Otabek pulls him closer.

“All right,” he chuckles, “No proposal.”

But Yuri mutters something under his breath and Otabek automatically leans in to hear better.

“What was that?”

“I said, not a _public_ proposal,” Yuri repeats and buries his red face against Otabek's shoulder.

And it's ridiculous because they've only been dating for little over a year and Yuri is not even twenty yet, but a skater's career was short-lived and they had to plan for some gold beyond the podium.

So it's just a thought, but it's for the future, and Otabek is a patient man.

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

>  

> _Love! Love until the night collapses!_

> **\- Pablo Neruda**

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was a lot of porn, stitched together with a yarn of angst, to make up for how PG the first part of this story was. I hope you liked it.
> 
> Come follow me on [tumblr!](https://dawnstruck.tumblr.com/)


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